She threw her body against the wooden door, which immediately gave way under her timid weight. She pushed it shut behind her. Eva looked down at her leg and saw the blood. Only now did she feel the pain. It shook her so hard she whimpered. And then again she heard the dogs. For an instant, she had imagined that she might have thrown the soldiers off her trail, but now there was only one last hope. She hobbled across the dark deserted room, through another door, and into the storeroom at the back. Once there, she called to her Mama, who was too weak to answer with anything other than a whispered, 'Eva.' At least Mama was safe. Outside, Eva could hear the soldiers who seemed now to have surrounded the house. Why was she so stupid? Why lead them to this place? She could have kept running past the house, deeper into the forest, until the dogs caught her and tore her limb from limb. At least Mama might have survived. But this way? It was madness.
Eva began to climb up the narrow wooden ladder, pushing hard with her good right leg and dragging her lame one behind her. Dogs can smell blood. The storage platform, which would normally bear the weight of hay, was empty apart from the shivering bundle that was her Mama. Eva pushed herself off the top rung of the ladder and, using her elbows, she slithered across the floor and folded herself tightly around Mama, as though providing her with a protective blanket. She heard the outer door fly open with such gale-like force that Eva knew it must have been kicked clear of its moorings. Men and dogs roared furiously, and Mama trembled and muttered her one word, 'Eva.' Eva offered her Mama a thumb to suck on and waited, and wondered if, lying here in the vast expanse of this platform, the soldiers might mistake them for a mound of abandoned garbage. And then the inner door thundered from its hinges. And Eva heard the baying. (Of course, the dogs could not climb the ladder.) And then the creaking of the ladder as the soldiers mounted its rickety structure, and the triumphant shouting, and the laughter, and then she felt the warm thuds as the bullets found scraps of flesh in which to nest.
I have tried to stop dreaming, but it is difficult to control my mind. I sleep as I walk. There is much to look at as we snake through the narrow lanes. It is a new world. Trees and hedges, and small fields. The wind surges again and the snow begins to flurry then swirl. Under the weight of snow, the trees are beginning to stoop over like old men. I fall, then quickly clamber to my feet. The wind tears the breath from my body. I want to live. The snow that already lies on the road makes it difficult to walk. I walk as though each step will be my last. Eva. I remind myself. My name is Eva. I am twenty-one years old. I have shrunk into womanhood. Mama walks beside me. We are people without expression, our backs bent, our heads low, a weary caravan of misery. They are taking us to another place. Goodbye, camp. To another place. Camp, I will never see you again. Another place. Camp, I will always see you. After two years, another place, but we know not where. I look at Mama and ask for forgiveness. Her eyes dim, and she looks at me and says, 'But you have done nothing for which you need to be forgiven.' I brush snow from her lips. Death on this road is a different affair. Lips turn blue, then the heart stops. Life is abruptly terminated. A snow-frosted mound. I cannot find Mama. I have spilt this life, but I will be more careful if you give me another one. I came naked from my mother, and naked will I be taken back. The Lord has given, the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. I sleep as I walk. Each step is torture. My wet feet, my wooden shoes, my blisters popping like tiny balloons. I eat the snow from the shoulders of the person ahead of me. I have no body. It is my soul that is now being punished. The sky, the horizon, the fields are all garbed in white. My companions tumble into the ditch. We pass people who refuse to see us. Is this a dream? I find it difficult to control my mind. How will they cleanse the earth after this?
SUICIDE: An act of voluntary and intentional self-destruction. St Thomas Aquinas (1225-74) claimed that suicide was a mortal sin because it usurped God's power over human life and death. However, neither the Old nor the New Testament directly forbids suicide.
In this new place, there is no work. We seldom see guards. There are no roll-calls, nothing but typhus and death. (When we move we flutter like helpless, jittery chickens.) With no routine, it is easy to give up and die. So easy. Four months now and no work. It is spring, but winter remains tethered to us, reluctant to leave. We simply sit in the barracks and wait. Death waits with us, visible, staring us in the face. We simply wait. The toothy grin of death. Again, I have lost Mama. Somewhere on the road. I thought of lying down and giving up, but I willed a way to continue. During the day, I go outside and sit with my back up against a wall. I have discovered a place where I can find what little sun there is. Winter sun. I sit where I can see most of the camp. Men and women lining up to taste a thin trickle of water from a pierced pipe. Troops of cattle. To their side, sick animals lying in pools of their own filth. Glazed eyes. A crazy bowel, perpetually active, shouting its protest. Life leaving without a real struggle, collapsing and tumbling in upon itself. No killing. No last words. No cruelty. Just death. Compared with the last place, there is little noise. I do, however, notice the birds. I envy them, for they can fly wherever they wish. But they keep their distance.
At first I had no idea where she found the knife, but it seemed to me that it could not have been too difficult for her to obtain one. After all, we didn't consider her a suicide risk. But then, when I thought about it, I realized that Marjorie, the nurse, had probably sent the knife to her room with Mr Alston. Eva was supposed to use it to cut the cake that her friend, Mr Gerald Alston, had brought for her. (No. I'm telling you, doctor, I saw it with my own eyes. To start with, they were dying at the rate of a couple of hundred a day. We had to get bulldozers in to move them. They were just too far gone to be brought back to life, just crawling out into the sunlight to die. Feeble it was. Bloody feeble. I saw a woman choke to death on a spoonful of water. I saw it with my own eyes. I can't ever forget that, ever. It'll be with me till the day I die, it will.) There was no reason to think that she would do something irrational. I know now that they suffer feelings such as imagining that they should have died with their families. But back then, I hadn't done any research. Quite simply, I didn't know the danger. She didn't talk much. In fact, I don't think she said anything to anybody. Including myself. But there would have been time for all of that. She wasn't considered to be a serious problem. There were no seizures or fits. But, sadly, we were wrong. There was a problem. There was also a lot of blood. She cut the right artery, as though she knew what she was doing. A lot of blood.
It is night. I prefer it when it's quieter. I have endured the day. I did not talk. I have seen the doctor. I have a private room. I have seen Gerry. There is something about this hospital that reminds me of the barracks at the end. (During the day, I go outside and sit with my back up against a wall. I have discovered a place where I can find what little sun there is. Winter sun. I sit where I can see most of the camp.) Since Gerry's sudden departure, I have stayed in bed. Propped up on my new pillow. I keep thinking that something is about to happen. But nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. And so life goes on. And so hope is finally extinguished. (Men and women lining up to taste a thin trickle of water from a pierced pipe.) This is the first time that I have ever been in a hospital. It makes me think about Papa. I can see the silhouettes of trees outside the window. English trees. Gerry's trees. Gerry brought me a chocolate cake. A peculiar gift. But there is nobody with whom to share it. Neither Margot, nor Bella. Only the girl who followed me across the water. I hear the murmur of voices in the corridor, and then I notice a crack of light beneath the door. There is a wide-hipped gully in this mattress. I am slightly uncomfortable. I am also unhappy. Now the light in the corridor is turned off. Objects are muddled in the dark. But I can still see her. The girl who followed me across the water. Perhaps she wants the cake. Gerry's chocolate cake. It is night. I hear the sound of coughing from another room. The other girl, with the swathe of red around her mouth. She is still here. Waiting.
I sit on the t
rain and stare out of the window. Light rain carried on sea air. We are leaving the coast. In the distance, white wisps of smoke rise from chimneys. I try to avoid those who stare at me, for their eyes pollute my confidence. There are two others in this compartment: a man who is preoccupied with his newspaper, and a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, who, when I first sat down, seemed keen to talk to me. She appears, however, to have now decided that it is best to say nothing. I am pleased. My foreign voice will only jump out and assault her. Somewhere lurking at home, by the fireplace, I imagine there is a man who provides her with some reason to live. It is raining heavily now. The drops smash against the window. I have a suitcase. We pass through green fields divided into squares that resemble pocket handkerchiefs. Tidy. Everywhere fenced off from everywhere else. Cows have rushed to shelter in one small corner. And then I see an untended graveyard. Weeds grow wildly. So this is England. And then, some time later, the train pulls into a station. A huge black cavern, full of smoke. And people. The man folds his newspaper neatly and stands. He opens the door and passes out into the corridor without so much as a word to either of us. The woman also stands and reaches up to retrieve her suitcase from the rack above her head. She speaks in a cathedral whisper. 'This is London.' One of her teeth is marked with lipstick. I, too, have a small suitcase. I stand and smile at the woman, desperate that she should say nothing further to me. I reach for my suitcase and avoid eye contact. But once more she speaks. 'Goodbye now.' I have no choice but to look at the woman. Her smile is the smile of a woman who has been sorely disappointed by a lack of conversation.
I stand in the middle of a great rush of human activity. It is difficult to know which way to turn. All around me there is a purposeful haste. Faces are set, minds focused. People swing luggage carelessly, as though clearing a path for themselves. I stand with my suitcase. Gerry's letter said come to England. He said he still wanted to marry me. He could not find Margot, but he said we could make a new life together. And so I boarded a train that furrowed its slow way across Europe towards the English Channel. And now I am in London with Gerry's address and no idea of how to get there. (He could not find Margot, but I will find her. He invited me to come at my leisure, and so come at my leisure I have.) I pick up my suitcase and begin to push my way towards the exit sign. It is evening and the sky is a dirty grey colour. The wind hits me forcefully and I bend into it. To my right, there are a line of people waiting for a taxi. I join the line and glance at the piece of paper in my hand. Gerry's address. I know that everything will be all right once I see Gerry.
The taxi driver does not say anything to me. We seem to have been driving for a long time, perhaps too long, but it is difficult for me to judge. These streets flow carelessly, one into the other. I want London to be a different place. A happier, brighter place. I am hungry. The driver stops outside a house that is joined to the houses on both sides of it. Some children play in the street. Young, dirty children dressed in tatters. I reach into my bag and pass the driver a note. 'Thanks, love.' There is no change, but I cannot argue for I do not know if he has cheated me. He looks at me with an invitation to leave his taxi. To leave his city. To leave his country. I will leave. I step down from the taxi and close the door. The children stop playing. They look at me and my suitcase. Number thirty-one. I see the door. A woman walks by, her scarf flaming in the wind. It is a small house. Gerry did not promise me a large house. He did not promise me anything on a grand scale. He did not, in fact, promise. But I have fallen and landed in a place where, despite the lack of promises, I have come to expect. I walk the three paces to the door and knock lightly. Gerry? There is no fence, no garden, nothing. This house opens right on to the street. I do not like this. It is not safe. And then the door opens. A woman with short blonde hair. A child clings to the hem of her skirt and looks up at me. She holds a wooden baking spoon in her hand. Behind her, I see two apples on a small table. I have caught her at an unfortunate moment. I have to speak This is the wrong house. 'Gerry?' I ask She takes her time. She looks down to my feet and then up again. 'He's out.' She pauses. 'What do you want?'
I believe the suitcase caused her to behave coldly towards me. It is one thing seeing a strange woman on your doorstep. It is another thing seeing a strange woman with a suitcase. Such a person has come to stay. I imagine these hospital people think I have come to stay. At their hospital. I fainted. I have no memory. And now they tell me I am unable to function. (This afternoon, you'll see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) They cut up my lunch for me. (Cottage pie and vegetables. Green beans. Sauce. Bread and butter.) Into the smallest, silliest pieces. They lay my knife and fork to sleep next to each other. I prefer not to eat. Food that is carved for a child. I am twenty-one. I look out of the window at the trees. I look out of the window at the grass. I love nature. England, through this window, is green and happy. Should I explain to them that I came only because Gerry asked me to come? (But last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words.) I still have the letter. I can show it to them. He asked me to come to England and marry him, and so I came. But he gave me hope where none existed. (This afternoon, you'll see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) I wanted nothing more than to be the source of happiness for somebody. Is that too much to ask? A sudden burst of rain sends my mind spinning. I still dream.
Margot and I sat together in the park and watched the small children playing on the grass with their parents. It was late afternoon and the light was beginning to fade. Beyond the children, and behind a tall screen of trees, was the lake, whose surface was being gently combed by the wind. Gliding across it slowly, and with wilful deliberation, were two rowing boats that seemed determined to be swallowed by the encroaching gloom. I looked again at my sister, who seemed to have rushed into womanhood and left me behind. The way she spoke, the manner in which she walked, even the manner in which she sat next to me, made me feel awkward. (These days, she sat with her legs crossed, one on top of the other.) We had always shared everything – toys, books and secrets – but now she was different. She told me things that I didn't know, which made me realize that there were other things that she knew which I didn't know. She had secrets. Then one of the small children, a girl with a yellow bow as big as a bat tied to the top of her hair, fell over and began to cry. Her mother came rushing towards her, and gathered her up and into her arms, and the child immediately stopped crying. Margot smiled. How many babies do you want, Eva? She asked me this question without turning to look at me. I followed her eyes to the drama on the grass, and then looked beyond this scene and through the screen of trees to the lake. There was only one rowing boat left, and it was now limping its way towards the small wooden jetty. Two children, I said. One boy and one girl. Margot nudged me and began to laugh. You're so conventional. I want to have three children. Three boys. Or three girls. Or four, maybe. And once more, without realizing it, Margot had managed to make me feel stupid. I knew she didn't do this on purpose, but it took all my strength to stop myself crying. I wanted to tell her that I had thought about having children. That I knew that a child does not choose his name, or his parents. That when he enters the world, he finds either a place of love or a place of hate. I knew that children are either a result of longing or a mistake. That they need to be given space to live. Margot, I have thought about these things. But I said nothing. We sat together and watched as the mothers led their children away. And then, in the distance, as the final boat nudged up against the jetty, and the park became enveloped in darkness, I saw the man take the older children and walk them to a large ditch, where one by one they were thrown into the fire. I listened to their wailing above the crackling of the flames. Having dispatched the last child, he walked back to where the infants were huddled with their mothers. One by one, he picked them up by the legs and smashed them against a brick wall. The pulped corpse of the infant was then pushed back into the mother's arms to prevent unnecessary littering. I saw Margot standing with three dead babies in her arms, the bloo
d flowing freely from their crushed heads. They were boys. Dead boys. Margot! I cried. Margot! But she did not hear me. She stood with her three dead children and refused to answer me.
The orderly is standing over me. You want me to call the doctor for you? Lady, you all right? He is leaning against his broom and looking down at me with concern. You gotta calm down, girl. This kind of carry on won't do you no good. It is still afternoon. The tea is cold. They were telling the truth. I did see the doctor. I am in a private room. I have no idea of how long I have been asleep. If I talk out loud in my sleep, what language do I speak? The wooden chair is empty. I move my head slightly so that I can see the orderly's face. The pillow is wet, my hair lank with sweat. Girl, you need a next pillow. The man hesitates for a moment. It is only when he puts aside his broom that I remember that I do not talk. (Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words.) His is a statement, not a question. I soon come back with a next pillow.
Of course, Gerry was at home. Hiding behind the door. Back at the camp, he had impressed me as a quiet and reasonable man, one who even shared his provisions with ladies. One morning, he came to me by my wall, where I sat hoping for sun. He came to me and brought me his army rations: a package containing biscuits, dried fruit, chewing gum and cigarettes. He never asked me, did you survive because you slept with a man? (Others asked this question, but not Gerry.) But of course, Gerry was at home. He emerged from behind the door and said something to his wife, but I couldn't hear. I looked at him and noticed that his trousers were thick, with turn-ups at the ankles. Then Gerry stepped from his house and led me quietly through the streets of London, not offering to carry my suitcase, not saying anything beyond, 'We'll have a drink, Eva love.' He cracked a smile. 'There's a nice pub just across from the tube station.' And so we walked on through the streets of London, neither one of us saying anything. I moved with the frantic beauty of a late butterfly, but he did not seem to notice. And then we passed a man who looked at me, then flicked a cigarette end that quickly arched and then fell to the ground, having described a tight burning parabola. I feared this kind of sudden dramatic action, and a chill ran through my body. But Gerry didn't notice. As we walked on, I looked all about me and decided that I liked these streets which, the cigarette-man aside, seemed to tolerate my presence. I liked Gerry's London.
The Nature of Blood Page 19